


you were there too

by emdashcomma



Category: She-Ra and the Princesses of Power (2018)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Implications of Sexual Content, Light Angst, Multi, PTSD, Pacific Rim AU, Pan Pacific Defense Corps Alternative, adora’s head is empty meme but make it painful, catra is alive and well and pissed at adora i promise, childhood best friends to battle soulmates to lovers to enemies to lovers again, harold they’re co-pilots, heavy yearning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-03
Updated: 2020-06-03
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:54:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24519535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emdashcomma/pseuds/emdashcomma
Summary: Living inside the Shatterdome hadn’t really required an adjustment.Even before the academy, these were the only kind of walls Adora had ever known. Cold. Metal. Where the lost and displaced called one thin blanket and a shared bunk home.or:the Pacific Rim AU that nobody asked for(update Dec 2020 due to me being: ✨the worst✨ this fic is on an indefinite hiatus, sorry ily!!!)
Relationships: Adora & Catra (She-Ra), Adora/Catra (She-Ra), Bow/Glimmer (She-Ra), Lonnie/Scorpia (She-Ra), Lonnie/Scorpia/Perfuma (She-Ra), Scorpia/Perfuma (She-ra), mermista/seahawk (she-ra)
Comments: 21
Kudos: 61





	you were there too

**Author's Note:**

> happy pride month!
> 
> times are really, really tense right now and I just wanted to take a quick moment to wish you all the best! stay safe, stay informed, and all my love goes to everyone fighting for justice right now <3
> 
> disclaimer: if you’re really really into pacific rim, like read the novelization and all that, then...... i will probably piss you off at least three (3) times before the end

Teeth graze at her ear but the only bite that comes is in the sharp gasp painted right against her skin. Whispering hot, wet words of encouragement as their hips work in sync — always in sync. It was enough to make anyone insane. Maybe already has. But they’d both known the consequence of crossing this line. They’d both known that the only way to cross this bridge — the bridge their souls hadn’t really _needed_ technology to build — was to burn it down as they met in the middle.

The Drift is calm.

(a strong, steady grip at the base of a throat)

The Drift is silence. 

(a cry clamped down and muffled against her shoulder, a ready hand knowing exactly when to slap over her mouth) 

The Drift had ripped back the intention and longing and want behind every lingering touch they’d ignored in childhood, every charged glance they’d shared in the academy. Honestly, it’d been an accomplishment that they even made it out of the Conn-Pod the first time. 

There’s a voice that she’s known all her life, that she’s allowed to fuse within the deepest parts of herself, telling her to let go let go let go. But when Adora’s eyes snap open, muscles taut and something right in the center of her burning, it isn’t the memory of that one familiar, desperate scream echoing in her too empty head. 

It’s the unknown thousands that she’d failed to save. 

* * *

Every time she looks in the mirror, she expects a scar. A single, jagged line slicing just above her heart and exiting her shoulder blade. Sometimes she’d spend hours searching — willing it to appear, willing for it to be one less ghost that exists out of reach, out of sight. 

Perfuma had assured her that the only damage done had been mental. Adora is inclined to disagree. 

* * *

12:16:04 blares in red when she enters the Shatterdome. 

Since its conception, she is sure that the complex has never seen night — never once stopped working and planning and anticipating. Lined at the walls Garnet Battler, Striker Typhoon, and Adventure Pearl stand gleaming and at attention. They are beacons, admirals overseeing the sheer racket that is the human refusal to die. Reminders for them all that loss only meant something if they let it. 

Adora dodges past carts wheeling synthetic blue and monitors that seem to have been made solely for making disconcerting beeps, and she fights the urge to close her eyes. They’d been worried that it would be too much. They’d been concerned that the lack of quiet would slow her recovery, but that wasn’t it at all. On the contrary, she welcomes it. Needs it. Breathes in the flurry and purpose because it’s the only way to smother down that flame of panic that sparks when the only thing she can hear is her own thoughts. 

( _Just_ her own thoughts. Singular. Unaccompanied. Alone.) 

Which, was something she’s wisely kept to herself. Perfuma was the most responsive psych analyst they had, but she also already gets tears in her eyes whenever Adora mentions having a hard time sleeping. 

“Marshal on deck!” 

Hundreds of heels click together as one. Adora’s are the first to move at the ‘at ease’. 

“Are they back yet?” 

A decade of active duty — and the first person, ever, to take down a Category IV — Angella Brightmoon felt like someone you should bow to before addressing. Adora definitely did the first time she’d seen her. And the second and the sixth. She’s grown past that by now, of course, but she does still have to keep her chin from flinching down when sharp, pale eyes level at her. 

“Ranger,” Angella sighs. Exhaled the word like it might be the last breath she’d ever have, and she resented her for it. “Exactly what part of ‘stay in your room’ is so hard for you to understand?” 

To her credit, part of Adora does flash in shame. It wasn’t fair for them all to look at the woman as a commander and mother both. Especially because, whenever she sent out a Jaeger, she, uniquely, had to deal with the burden of being a commander _and_ mother, both. 

But she also can’t stop herself from persisting. “They should have been back by now. I heard that one of their arrows failed to cauterize. Did they clean it up?”

Angella looked like she was ready to throw her hands up, if the ‘d’ in her DNA didn’t stand for dignity. Instead, she takes a visible deep breath, straightens her shoulders, and keeps walking. The nod that tells Adora that she is allowed to follow is barely perceptible. 

She doesn’t look at her again until they reach the LOCCENT. 

Upon their entrance, Entrapta cranes her neck around at the _woosh_ of the door. The Head Mission Controller hardly spares her any thought though — instead, takes one look at the Marshal’s face, and makes a little squawk of delight. She has somehow managed to fasten several long strands of violet hair to anything and everything that could hold a knot, and she tugs on one of them now. It’s connected to the dial of an exact, tiny replica of the war clock. The action produces a _click_.

The face now reads 00:00:00:00.

Angella ignores this completely. “Where are they?” 

“Just crossed Itbayat, Marshal. They set up a fifty mile perimeter and radar shows most of the blue’s sunk or dissipating. Clean up crew’s on the way though, just in case.” 

“It wasn’t the arrow, but the time gain compensation!” Entrapta cuts in. Her hair acts as a barrier between the rest of the deck and her personal screen, but Adora figures that she was probably poring over a hologram of Eternity Rune. “I’d tested the frequency against muscle tissue to titanium, but there is no doubt that it was a discrepancy with the attenuation! Something about the kaiju altered the reading!” 

There’s a hiccup of silence. “Which… threw off their aim?” Adora tries, hesitantly. 

“ _Yes_!” The girl sounds utterly thrilled by the disaster. “So I asked Eternity Rune to try bringing back a sample this time. I’ve got a theory on the armor… or maybe even its vascular density…” 

Entrapta’s voice fading to the background, Adora catches Angella’s expression in her periphery. Shoulders drawn, chin held high, she stares at the main screen showing Eternity Rune’s status. Lights flashing from the dozens of monitors basks her in an almost ethereal glow — throws off the bruises that usually clung under her eyes. Eyes that never leave the display for the pilots’ vitals.

There’s a rumor, one that only a single person in the entire world could confirm. 2018 — the Pan Pacific Defense Corps had believed they were winning. It had looked liked it. They were pushing the Kaiju back; the miracle mile, that last stretch of hope where you either stopped them or you didn’t, hadn’t been touched for months. People began talking about ways to seal the Mariana Trench for good. People began talking about _the end_. 

Then without warning, Grizzlor, barely even a Category II, was standing right over Manila Bay. He was small and fast and had just slipped through. By the time Jaegers got to the city, it was already half decimated. 

After that, something in the game changed. It took time to restore a Jaeger, and approximately sixteen months to build an entirely new one — and it looked like the Kaiju knew it. Brute, explosive strength crashed against their shores wave after wave after wave. 

They called it The Marathon.

So relentless was the assault that pilots hardly managed to make it back to their Shatterdomes — Jaegers tapped each other in at the middle of the Pacific. More and more Kaijus were being killed than ever before, they were smaller, weaker, but it wasn’t sustainable. The enemy had learned that humanity could not be brought down in one fell swoop… but it did have a tendency to succumb to wears and tears. 

One Jaeger, Atlas Guardian, refused to let it happen. Again and again and again it went out, holding the line. Bracing the entire world upon its back, even as the oceans spilled toxins down its shoulders. They say that, between deployments, there hadn’t even been time to wash it off. 

Adora stares at translucent, almost magenta-stained skin. _They say that Atlas’ rangers had just stayed in the Conn-Pod, marinating in the Kaiju blue._

Angella doesn’t turn to her, but she knows that she’s noticed her gaze. Adora squares her shoulders. “Marshal, I’m ready to get back out there.” 

She doesn’t respond. The technicians continue their work, but several glances are exchanged over screens.

“This is the third time this month you’ve sent them out,” Adora continues, and she knows she’s treading on dangerous footing. She knows that, if there was one person keeping track, it was the woman before her now. “She’ll never admit it, but she’s tired.” _You’re tired._

“The restoration’s almost done, isn’t it? Put me in the combat room. Send every single cadet, I don’t care. We need more pilots.”

There’s a beep from one of the monitors, the control room is abruptly bathed green. Entrapta lets out a peal of raucous laughter. Eternity Rune has made it home. 

Finally, Angella’s eyes flick over. “Finish with Perfuma today. Then we will see.” 

* * *

As badly as she wants to head straight to the loading bay, she knows that she would just be in the way. So, Adora pushes against the urgent crowd of bodies — further towards the residence chambers, the opposite direction. Every shoulder knocking past her is tense with anxiety, all wanting to preserve the bit of carcass Eternity Rune managed to drag back with them. 

Living inside the Shatterdome hadn’t really required an adjustment. Even before the academy, these were the only kind of walls Adora had ever known. Cold. Metal. Where the lost and displaced called one thin blanket and a shared bunk _home_. 

So the unsentimental halls and impersonal rooms hadn’t bothered her. An absent smile pushes its way against her lips, recalling the first morning they decided to explore the facility. Catra had tried her best to look grouchy (“Exactly what is the point of us finally having our own beds, if you’re still gonna wake me up at buttcrack-dawn?”), but she’d also already tied her hair back and, besides that, it took _two_ to spend the entire night christening every unsentimental surface of their impersonal suite so— 

Adora stops. Realizes that she’s four centimeters away from walking headlong into the door. She’s still standing there, blinking, straining hard to get her brain to just _reach over_ the chasm and seize the thought that had just spontaneously slipped away, when it swings open. 

“Oh, hello!” The complete opposite of cold and metal, Perfuma grins at her. She doesn’t seem to care a lick about the fact that she was hovering just _right there_ — and the radiance pouring out of her alone probably could’ve powered up a Mark-3 Jaeger. A single, fresh camellia is buried in her hair. 

Her smile simmers to concern, however, when she catches Adora’s frown. “What’s wrong?” 

“I— Um. Sorry, nothing. I just zoned out. I’m good.” 

It was, perhaps, literally in her job description to not believe that at all but Perfuma doesn’t push. Instead, she just opens the door wider and ushers her in with an encouraging nod. 

As always, Adora can’t stop her eyes from combing over the room. There was always something new — some out of place little tidbit of civilian life that, ironically enough, she had never known to exist outside of the Shatterdome. It was a topic that the other girl insisted on dedicating a good handful of sessions on, though Adora still didn’t get why. It honestly had never troubled her that she’d grown up in a PPDC displacement bunker. It’s not like she had known any different. It’s not like she’d been alone, either. 

Her attention snaps to movement near the bed, and she’s reaching out before she can stop herself. 

“That’s Lonnie’s,” Perfuma says behind her. Adora can tell that she’s grinning again when she gives the thing a little shake, gasping when the orange globules inside move. “It’s a lava lamp.” 

She outright laughs when Adora whips around to give her an alarmed look. “Not real lava.” 

“Right, I knew that,” she mumbles. Still, she sets the trinket down with exorbitant care. 

There’s a beat of silence, but it’s not an awkward one. Almost like a dance, the two of them simply move into position.

Perfuma sits down. Adora starts pacing. 

Therapy started going a lot smoother as soon as they figured out she just couldn’t sit still. It was like tricking her mind to open up by distracting her body; as long as Adora kept her attention on her feet, her big fat mouth was left unattended. 

She’s examining the lava lamp again when Perfuma makes her first move. “So. I heard that you spoke with the Marshal today.” 

Adora nods. Casts her eyes to the nightstand, wondering if the thick manila file with her name scrawled on top was in there. “I don’t really know what else there is to talk about.” 

“Well, it was really good progress last week when we examined your body.” 

Again, like earlier, something in Adora’s brain felt like it was firing signals through cotton. She was smirking, and she didn’t know why, and when she _realized_ she didn’t know why it was like her entire system just decided to panic and do a force reboot. 

Perfuma’s watching her, no doubt cataloging the reaction. Adora wants to kick herself. 

_If you want to get back out there, you have to prove you can take this._

Closing her eyes, she walks across the room. Her body. Last time, she had told Perfuma that her chest hurt sometimes. Not of any physical pain, but as if her heart was beating too loud and the echoes were bouncing hard against its chambers. 

(Adora had just mentioned the thing about her chest hurting. Perfuma provided the rest of the ‘echoes against chambers’ imagery, which she found to be accurate to a terrifying degree.) 

Trusting that the other girl could walk her through it again, Adora blurts the first thing that comes to mind. 

“My head… feels empty.” — _the fuck_? Her hands ball into fists, heat simmering under her collar.

Perfuma doesn’t laugh this time though, just tilts her head and coaches her through a deep breath. Waits patiently for her to gather her thoughts. 

Giving herself a frustrated little shake, she tries again. 

“Okay. It’s, like… It’s like I’m almost missing a part. Not a part of me, because it isn’t all me, it’s… it’s more than me, it’s…”

God, how can she explain it. Like she was being peeled from the inside out. Like she hadn’t just lost but _was_ lost — is lost. There wasn’t an exact (sane) way to say it, she’s tried, she can’t— 

“The headspace,” Perfuma’s voice, gentle as anything, supplies. The other girl looks like she wants to reach out to touch her, but thinks better of it. “The Drift requires a connection of the minds. You and Catra created something that took parts of each other, made it into a new whole. The whole that you both used to control the Jaeger.” 

Adora‘s breath barrels out. They created a whole? It takes everything in her to keep her chest from cracking right down the middle, and there isn’t any strength left to spare for her voice. 

Hesitantly, she nods. “I’m… used to her being there. _Here_. In my head. Her view, her conscience, her… essence.” Her hands, her laugh, her shoulder, pressed right against her own. “I’ll be walking down the corridor and see some random thing, and then my brain tries— it tries to form a thought, just some stupid random thought, but it _can’t_ because it’s reaching for something that isn’t there anymore. Like the Drift carved a room in my head for Catra, and now that we’re not connected it’s just… closed itself off.”

Shut her out. 

As the words wash over her, something thicker than tears threatens to take over. Something deeper, heavier. Adora squeezes her eyes shut but nothing slips out. 

When a soul breaks, does it bleed? 

“It’s just… hard… to _feel like myself_ again. It feels too close to being _by_ myself and— and I haven’t been that for years, so I… I don’t know how…” 

Adora expects to be met with another stretch of silence, because that’s usually how these sessions go. It used to be unnerving — the way Perfuma could just sit there as she muddled through her chaos — but after a couple weeks she realized that it really wasn’t so much different from Drifting. When pilots form the bridge, things like words and response become all but obsolete. There was just acknowledgement. A mute presence of trust assuring that whatever you put out has been seen and simply accepted as is. 

Adora didn’t particularly feel like she’s had any kind of breakthrough, but when she opens her eyes she’s abruptly enveloped in lavender and warmth. 

“Thank you for telling me your truth,” Perfuma whispers in her hair. Ah. _Now_ it was tears welling up in her chest. “Thank you for keeping yourself open.” 

When they pull apart, she focuses on her breathing. Tries to keep it steady even though the world is currently crashing around her ears. 

She finds balance under the third inhale. “I need to be out there again.” 

Perfuma hesitates. “Adora… What happened in Pudong—“

“Is exactly why I need to be out there again,” she interrupts. She _needs_ to prove that she can take this. “They need the backup. Glimmer, Bow, Scorpia, Lonnie… they can’t keep going on at this rate. They can’t do this on their own.” 

_I can’t **let** anymore people die_, Adora wants to scream. But she can’t. Instead, she clutches her palm to her chest, pressing down to staunch the emotions purging from her heart, and does not feel sorry. 

* * *

Talking to Perfuma always felt like she’d just willingly astral projected into a hurricane, so when a solid wall slams into her out of nowhere, Adora just takes it. She barely manages to catch a whiff of spearmint and mocha, and—

“—We missed you, we missed you, we missed you!” 

Beside herself with relief, she sighs and allows herself to melt into Bow’s warm chest. She’s considering passing out right then and there, but another voice rings down the hall.

“Bow! You’re gonna crush her!” Immediately followed by another collision against her back. Adora forces herself not to cry. 

“We were so _worried_ when we saw Entrapta reset her clock—“

“—The tiny war clock she keeps on her desk. She sets it back every time mom looks like she’s about to explode—“

“—Which isn’t that funny—“

“It’s a _little_ funny—“

“But anyways, we were so worried that it had something to do with you!” 

The last part is said in perfect unison, accompanied by two sets of arms tightening their hug at precisely the same time. For something that was made entirely out of science, there isn’t really an _exact_ science to the Drift. It manifested in an array of ways for every pair of rangers. Catra’s quick, lithe body was liquid steel pouring over Adora’s decisive, overwhelming strength. Whenever they were together, people always commented on the way they moved around each other — like an unstoppable force orbiting an immoveable object. 

Bow and Glimmer’s connection, on the other hand, seemed more emotionally-rooted. Not only did they constantly finish each other’s sentences but— 

_“Well? What happened while we were gone?”_

They started and echoed them as well. 

“I’m so glad you guys are okay,” Adora breathes. And breathes and breathes and breathes. She can feel the two of them exchanging a glance between her, but can’t find it in herself to care. 

Glimmer lets go first, and Bow stays to catch her weight. 

“Hey,” the other girl’s voice is gentle. Her next words fill in the beats between the slow, soft strokes combing through Adora’s hair. “Seahawk and Mermista just got back, too. Let’s go get food with them.” 

* * *

“Ohh my god. How many times do I have to tell you, we are not changing our Jaeger’s name to _Shanty Dearest_.”

“But! But, my love!”

Seahawk hangs his head and everyone stifles their snickers, and Adora tries her best to join in. She’s enjoying herself. She is. Between training and the press tours and the five hundred foot megademons constantly at their throats, it’s been a while since they’ve all been able to gather like this. The last remaining rangers, the rebellion — the Pan Pacific Princesses (plus Bow and Seahawk). 

Across the table, Netossa is regaling the time she and Spinerella faced off against Moltenhead. She knows that she should be listening, should be taking notes, but the best she can manage is to nudge her carrots to the other side of the plate. 

And ignore the twin set of eyes watching her. 

After Glimmer and Bow told everyone about their encounter with Atticon, (“The arrow was a lucky dodge—“ “—tried slipping back into Challenger’s Deep—“ “—Wasn’t even a fair fight once we brought out the Plasma Staff”), there really wasn’t anything left to keep their attention from turning towards her. 

They’re counting on her, she knows they are. They _all_ are. Even through the grins and the jokes, there is no denying the exhaustion roiling beneath the surface. Spinnerella keeps losing her train of thought. Seahawk’s mustache clings to his lip, limp and dull. Bow’s voice is so low that it hasn’t even cracked once during the entire conversation.

Adora glares a hole into her fork. She wants so badly to reassure them — to let them know that it was going to be okay. That she was going to lift the weight off. But her session with Perfuma still clings to her throat; lungs filled with a miasma of doubt and fear and dread that maybe she’d shared too much. 

_(Or maybe she hadn’t shared **enough** )._

She doesn’t even notice that her friends have fallen silent, until someone loudly clears their throat. Adora looks up and her ears go crimson — they’re all looking at her.

“Um, wh— Sorry, what?”

Glimmer and Bow aren’t sitting next to each other, but they always give off the impression that they’re holding hands. Like, spiritually. Adora senses him giving his copilot a squeeze, and braces herself. 

“I was just asking you about your session with Perfuma today,” Glimmer says quietly. Her eyes, rung blue at the edges, are impossibly soft. 

Adora opens her mouth, but nothing comes out. There’s a block in her throat and she’s terrified to unclog it. Doesn’t trust that she’ll be able to explain what might slip free.

 _It’s just hard to feel like myself again_ — ever since she’d said the words, she couldn’t stop tasting them. Sour regret, bitter shame. Her friends are off fighting, risking their lives, and she couldn’t help them because she felt _lonely_. 

Because she _missed_ someone who _left_?

Spinerella leans forward. “Hey. You know we’re here for you, Adora.” Netossa nods vigorously beside her. 

“We know it’s hard,” Bow adds, “I mean… Seriously, I can’t even imagine what it might feel like. Losing Eternity Rune would be devastating, but if _Glimmer_ and I, if we weren’t able to be… to, you know...”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. Doesn’t have to. Every head at the table ducks down, bodies crumpling in on themselves. It doesn’t make a sound, but they all feel it. Seven hearts break at once, creating a single shared fissure — and it’s a wonder that the ground doesn’t actually tremble. 

(There’s a bit of fine print that comes with letting someone access every crevice of your mind.

A small disclaimer.

Warning: side effects of submitting yourself to the mortifying ordeal of being known include fatigue, nausea, and a codependency so strong it may feel as though your spine is being ripped out of your chest when apart.) 

Mermista is the one that drags them from the rubble.

“One time, Seahawk went with the Marshal for some press release in San Diego. For _three days_ , I could feel his despair across the Pacific Ocean.” She rolls her eyes to the man in question, but he meets it with an uncharacteristically gentle smile. “It was _so_ annoying.” 

It takes a moment, but then Glimmer lets out snort.

It takes a moment, but they all hold strong. And just like that, seven hearts try to mend as one. 

“… _So_. Are we all just gonna ignore that Bow’s hogging all the potatoes? Because—“

“Ah, if you all liked that little tale, you should hear of our adventure—“

“—Entrapta’s gonna do something about the arrows—“

“—get me _started_ on this one. She thinks I don’t know what she’s doing when I have to go train the recruits and she’s in the room alone—“

“—Euugghh, is anybody going to pass the—“

“— insists I must be experiencing _spontaneous hot flashes_ but we both know she’s—“

“ _Spinny_!” 

Adora looks around the table, drinks in the sight of them all together. It doesn’t make any sense, but she feels heavy. Dense. Like she’s slowly sinking down to the bottom of the sea — yet she’s incapable of drowning. A thousand leagues of pressure hits her, of just how much she _loves_ them all. 

And they aren’t connected in the Drift, but Bow and Glimmer must feel it too. They glance over at her and, in unison, reach over to take her hand. 

* * *

_Thank you for telling me your truth. Thank you for keeping yourself open._

_So, what? So you were just going to **leave** me? _

She’s ripped out of sleep with a gasp. There’s a sharp, torn sound wringing the air out of the room, and when Adora goes to push herself up it takes her a second to realize that it’s coming out of her own mouth. And she’s _trying_ to stop, trying to quiet herself down, because she _heard_ her, she—

But the other side of the bed is empty. The lights are still on, she must have dozed off, and she stares at untouched sheets. Breath still pressing uncomfortably against her ears, Adora continues to absorb what she can.

Backpack on the wall.

A roll of athletic tape on the desk. 

One mirror. Wide, hazy grey eyes looking back. 

Slowly, she grounds herself again. Adora sits up, fighting the urge to clutch at her own hair. Her resolve crumbles almost immediately though, because there is something else — a want that she knows she can’t, can’t, can’t give in to — settled _right there_ , right beneath her skin. Crawling up her throat, promising not to suffocate her, if she just lets the cry, the plea, the _name_ out. 

(Just to hear her voice again, just to hear it.) 

So she tangles her fingers into her scalp, nails digging in. Because if she breaks and calls out and is met with silence — well, she just might never come back. 

* * *

The next time she wakes up, the world is breaking. 

_Garnet Battler, report to Bay04 Level A22. Garnet Battler, report to Bay04 Level A22._

By the time she’s stuffed on her shoes and barging out the door, the intercom is amending itself. 

_All rangers, report to mission control. All rangers, report to mission control._

Adora’s heart freezes and plummets to the floor, even though her feet continue to carry her down the hall. _What the hell?_

She starts sprinting, leaves the useless thing behind. 

* * *

Glimmer, Bow, Scorpia, and Lonnie are already in their drivesuits when she makes it there. Entrapta’s war clock is on the floor, smashed to pieces. 

She looks between them all, and she can’t breathe. “What’s going on?” 

Nobody answers her. She notices that Lonnie’s hand is shaking, she’s gripping onto Scorpia so tight, and Adora’s about to start _screaming_ when the door opens. 

“Marshal on deck!” Scorpia announces. But she doesn’t let go of Lonnie to salute. 

“At ease, rangers.”

“Mom, what’s happening?” 

Angella isn’t the one that answers though. Instead, everyone other than their commander blinks in surprise when Perfuma steps forward. It’s the first time Adora’s seen her without a flower in her hair. Her eyes are red. “It’s a triple event.” 

Bow sits down, hard. 

“Wh— That’s… That’s impossible…” 

“No, my readings are correct,” Entrapta chimes in, but her voice is sobered. She looks like she’s about to say something else, but also for the first time hesitates. Her eyes skim towards Angella. The doors open again; Spinerella, Netossa, Seahawk, and Mermista rush in. 

With a solemn nod, their Marshal walks to the front of the room. When she turns back to face them, she is steel. 

“Fifteen minutes ago, a Magnitude-7 earthquake ripped through the Northern Mariana Islands. Shortly after, Entrapta captured signals from the Breach.” She pauses, looks every one of them in the eye. “Three Category IIs are expected to come out. And we have evidence to suspect that a quadruple event will shortly follow.” 

This declaration is met with stunned silence. 

“Strike Troopers have already been deployed to the islands,” she continues, “As well as every major city along the rim. Evacuation towards midland is being carried out as we speak.” 

_No_. 

Adora, not realizing that her mouth dropped open, forces it shut with a _click_. She’s seized with a terror that if she tries to make even a _sound_ , she’ll just start screaming and screaming and never ever stop. 

She’s just about to lose her hold, when Scorpia begins to nod. “Okay. Okay. So where d’ya need us, Marshal?” 

Adora whips her neck so fast, she’s sure that it breaks. But that’s the least of her concerns. 

One by one, the rangers are pulling themselves up — gleaming and at attention. She feels a fracture, marrow-deep, slicing right through her. 

_No. No. No._

But Angella’s turning to her. She pins her down with a look so calm, her lungs finally remember their duty to breathe. She holds her gaze, holds her steady. 

“Let me make myself very clear: I expect everyone in this room to come back here alive. That is an order. But for that to work, for us to _win_ , we need one thing. We need _all_ our rangers. All our Jaegers.” 

Adora doesn’t move, hardly daring to think she understands. 

Again, it’s Perfuma, tucked in between Scorpia and Lonnie, that speaks up. Walks her through it. She stares at Adora — three hands, intertwined, clutched over her heart — and she looks sorry. 

“We need She-ra.” 

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much for reading! 
> 
> world building is: a bitch. chapters are probably gonna be shorter from here :)
> 
> tumblr: @maryannings


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